


Blood Donor

by Predatrix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Jossed, M/M, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a Fest, forget which one. Prompt: Severus Snape <i>is</i> a vampire. And he wants to suck Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Donor

_I should have been more bloody careful!_ had been Snape’s first thought as the fangs went in. Just five minutes before he was going to portkey back home, he’d seen the sun glimmer from behind the clouds onto a patch of vegetation at the edge of the forest. He recognised it. It had been one of the things he’d come out to collect, really quite rare, and even the best London apothecaries didn’t stock it for long.

After all, it was daylight, he had a portkey in his pocket; how much trouble could he get into?

Quickly and cautiously he went to the plant, made sure his eyesight had not misled him, and smiled with triumph as he bent to pull a handful of leaves.

A heavy weight struck his back and something sharp slid into the flesh of his neck. There was a sensation of intense cold, and an indescribable feeling tingling in his blood. The man smelt of sour sweat and what Snape’s disgusted senses insisted was old blood. Despite that, the pull of Snape’s blood throbbed at the wound, a dark pleasure compensating for the pain. Snape felt hot-and-cold at once, a strange erotic thrilling, as the fangs worked smoothly at his neck. He gasped and writhed, not _quite_ trying to escape. He was dizzy with unwelcome desire.

He thought about portkeying back home, but that might very well take his unwelcome assailant along for the ride, and there was also the frightening sensation that he wasn’t sure if he could even manage such a small voluntary action as putting his hand in his pocket.

He could neither defend himself nor react. The swooning feeling never stopped. Vampire-venom was used in a few recreational and medicinal drugs—and there was obviously _something_ that kept the victim from fighting back. As a subject for research, it would have been much more entertaining than as something being done to him. His assailant kept drinking at him, making lovely, disgusting, appalling noises that made his cock ache until the lack of blood collapsed his erection.

His blood burned in him, burned its way out of him. He was _dying_ with lust and fury and misery, and there was nothing left.

He was empty.

As the last of his blood was taken from him, something happened. It felt...like a flock of dark crows taking flight: not quite an orgasm but like it. His mouth itched, and he was still.

At every crime, someone once said, the criminal leaves something and takes something away. Snape would have considered it too facile to suggest that the vampire was taking his humanity and leaving him with a disease. After all, he’d never considered being human a great prize anyway.

However, that left him no appropriate language to express this event. Which could very well, he decided, be the last and least of his problems.

Eventually his assailant completed the act and left.

There was a cure for vampirism, everyone knew that. It involved drinking blood from an enemy, and then from a lover (not just a casual sex-partner), and reciting a certain spell. Considering that Snape had never had, or been, a lover (sex, yes, love, certainly not), that way out was closed.

Gasping and horrified, he put his hand in his pocket and was returned back home. With typical efficiency, he set about trying to kill himself as soon as he’d recovered from the journey.

 

 

 

 

He was bruised, blood-stained, furious and still alive, or possibly still undead.

Sharp edges didn’t work: blades and glass-shards cut perfectly well but were powerless against the curious tendency his flesh had developed to reseal itself almost instantly. He might _eventually_ lose enough blood to kill him this way, if he kept going for weeks.

All the clean merciful (that is, quick) poisons he knew (and there were quite a few of them) seemed to be neutralised by the condition.

Slow poison might well work, if it fooled his unwelcome defences, but that would have to be the last resort, in case it _didn’t quite_ kill him. An eternity of agony would be far worse than a quick death.

He glanced desperately around the room, and finally noticed his beautiful Slytherin-silver paper-knife on the desk. Miserably, he pointed his wand at it.

The transfiguration from blunt to sharp took about forty minutes. He was naturally fairly poor at this form of magic, and also his intent was impure: he didn’t _want_ to transfigure this object of beauty into an instrument of death, and he wasn’t even sure silver _worked_ against vampires or just werewolves.

Still, needs must.

He completed the spell, wrote a rather apologetic suicide note, and placed it in the waterproof inner pocket of his robes.

At this point, just as he was about to reach for the instrument of his own destruction, there was a noise.

Albus Dumbledore scrambled out of the fireplace.

He was out-of-breath and covered in Floo powder. There was also a clock under his arm.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” said Snape crossly, thinking, _can’t a man put a period to his existence in decent privacy?_ and determined to put the old fool off as hurriedly as politely possible.

Without answering, Albus dumped the clock on Snape’s desk, ran up to him, gasping for breath, and flung his arms round him.

“Thank Merlin I’m not too late!” he said, between wheezes.

The old man did not look well.

Wearily, Snape eased him down into the one comfortable chair the room possessed and went to brew tea. Just as he completed it and started to wish he kept sugar somewhere, a house-elf popped out of the shadows in front of him, holding a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits.

“Thank you,” he said grudgingly, adding the sweet things to the tray with the teapot.

“Would you mind telling me what’s the matter, Albus?” he asked quietly, when both of them had finished a cup of disgustingly-sweet tea.

“Would you mind telling me why you were trying to kill yourself?” snapped Albus. There was no twinkle in the bright blue eyes, for once.

 _He can’t know._ “Albus, have your wits finally deserted you with age?”

“Far from it.” Albus tugged at his own beard irritably. “Have you ever wondered how I seem to know so suspiciously much about what’s going on?”

“Frequently,” admitted Snape.

 “Clock. That one. The average wizard-clock for telling you what someone is doing is bound to one person. Mine will tell me what anyone in Hogwarts is doing if I touch it and think of that person. It was sheer chance that I decided to check on you five minutes ago. SEVERUS SNAPE: COMMITTING SUICIDE,” Albus went on furiously.

“I realise it will inconvenience your plans, Albus, and I am sorry for that,” said Snape.

“It will not only lose me a useful spy, but a friend, Severus. I would much rather you didn’t.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. It was, he supposed, kind of Albus to think of him that way, but it didn’t change the facts.

“I really am sorry, Albus,” he admitted.

He looked at his desk. Damn. The clock had fallen on top of his beautiful paper-knife. It hadn’t damaged it, but the rather half-hearted transfiguration had slipped straight off, as if it had been waiting for an excuse not to work.

“Can you think of any good reliable ways for a vampire to commit suicide?” asked Snape. “Preferably painless but above-all fast?”

Albus looked at him hard.

“I would like to talk to you about Remus Lupin,” said Albus, after a minute.

“I apologised for that...” _when it became clear to me I wouldn’t be able to sleep comfortably until I did,_ thought Snape, who was more vulnerable to guilt than he liked to think, “...although it occurs to me that becoming a Dark creature myself is a good example of natural irony.”

“Remus Lupin is a good man, whatever else he is.”

Snape nodded.

“In your opinion, is it possible to contain the danger posed by lycanthropy?”

“Yes.”

“Indefinitely?”

“I don’t know.”

“In your opinion, would it have been possible for Remus Lupin to continue being an excellent teacher without endangering students?”

He thought about it. At the time, self-justifyingly, he’d told himself that Lupin’s forgetting that Potion was an absolute proof that he could not be trusted.

“Yes, if better safeguards had been put in place in case of accident.”

“Would Remus Lupin willingly harm a child?”

“No.”

“Would you?”

“No more than I do already,” admitted Snape, who enjoyed mental cruelty (and it hadn’t done _him_ any harm, had it?) but who had a distaste for torture and violence that hadn’t helped advance him among the Death Eaters.

“In your opinion, is it possible to contain the danger posed by vampirism?”

Snape had to admit he had no idea.

Fifteen minutes later, with skilful use of the Socratic method, Albus had settled on a decision. Snape would research the subject of vampirism extensively for two weeks, and if the disorder could not be safely contained, _then_ kill himself.

Albus gave him a mysterious twinkly look and said, “You could always try the cure, it’s well-known.”

“Albus, you’re my dearest friend in the world, but you aren’t my type.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Snape put that down to Albus’s normal questionable state of sanity, and ignored it.

 

 

 

The research was fascinating.

He discovered the differences between the legends and the real condition, which took some time.

Vampires didn’t _exactly_ feed on blood, for example. If people had actually thought about it, they’d have noticed one couldn’t easily gain nourishment from blood, or at least not without exsanguinating vast numbers of people, which would be difficult to hide and would also lead to one of those extinct-prey-followed-by-extinct-predator situations.

Their unusual dietary requirements were...supplemental, not exclusive.

The whole question was deeply intriguing to a pure-and-applied Potions specialist: chemistry and magic intimately intertwined. Some of the interactions of substances were purely chemical, but vampires, being magical creatures, also fed on the magical and symbolic properties of blood.

The only first-person account he’d managed to find described the act as ‘like drinking wine made from distilled magic. Power and poetry, air and fire—the nearest thing to ecstasy one can find in this corrupted world.’ Coming down to earth from the rhetoric with a bump, the writer stated: ‘Walking away from the addiction is the most difficult act any vampire can ever do. It is also vitally necessary.’

Like a lycanthrope, a vampire who gave in to his disease would become less than human. _That,_ taken far enough, would lead to vampires as ravening monsters draining people to death.

Snape was surprised to note that that wasn’t a major danger: a vampire with any mental or magical control almost never killed. A vampire who never resisted his own impulses would eventually get to the point of killing, but it was the last stage of the disease.

Instead, there was a less-obvious tightrope to walk. The magical side of things drew the vampire powerfully to strong and innocent wizards, just the sort that their ethics, if they had any, led them to leave alone. Meanwhile, if a vampire chose to drink from the unpleasant dregs-of-humanity, their own magic would be corrupted.

He snorted gently to himself. So it was a difficult, awkward, morally-ambiguous holding-operation between two mutually-incompatible modes of being. Life as normal, in fact.

Meanwhile, he had something to brew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The base itself was animal blood, and simplicity itself when prepared freshly. The more difficult part was designing something to compensate for the magical part of a vampire’s feeding-requirements. Intelligence and magical force were a large part of the equation, and a large part of what seemed to trigger desire as opposed to addiction.

He got a quantity of cow’s blood ready. Bespelling it to keep fresh, he put it away until the need should start to declare itself, and worked on different combinations of herbs that might be useful to add the magical component to the blood-base.

 

 

 

No excuse not to get back to work.

By the time the addiction started to bite, he’d have his drink lined up.

The first-years were small, quiet and overawed. One of them was wringing her hands endlessly in the shadow of her sleeves.

He glided behind her soundlessly. “Pull those sleeves back.”

There was a very strong smell of vanilla. He might have to give them the talk about bringing sweets in in their pockets soon.

She jumped, and the small pile of dried mouse-ears by her cauldron scattered.

“As I was about to say,” Snape went on, in his most poisonous voice. “Long sleeves are no good for Potions work.”

Now he could smell clean warm sheets, still scented with vanilla. That was definitely not something that belonged in a working dungeon.

He wasn’t accustomed to his brain betraying him that way, especially since he hadn’t been wearing himself out with overwork lately. He didn’t even feel tired. Hungry, though... an hour after breakfast?

A small Slytherin boy who reminded him of himself when young glanced at Snape’s own flowing sleeves.

He sighed and clipped up his sleeves. “This is what we do to make sure the sleeves don’t get into anything.” He’d always liked the extra presence his flowing clothes gave him (especially as he’d been a scrawny, much-ignored child) but some practical compromises needed to be made.

He could now smell new-baked bread with honey on it.

Ah. He’d read about this. Synaesthesia was a common reaction for a newly-made vampire: the brain making sense of the body’s new set of reactions tended to interpret the desire for blood as either ‘something like food’ or ‘something like sex’.

A vampire’s equivalent of adolescence, he suspected: unexpected hormones and needs running rampant.

He covered his itching mouth with a casual hand, pretending to hide a yawn.

And unexpected erections, apparently; not necessarily in the crotch area.

 

 

As he left breakfast, Hagrid took him aside. “Can I ‘ave a quiet word with yeh, sir?”

He had a nasty feeling that Hagrid was speaking in Hagrid’s interpretation of a whisper, so he said, “Not here. If it’s important, I’ll meet you at the cottage.” Hagrid’s ‘whispering’ was one of the most reliable methods of spreading school gossip.

In his next free lesson, he made his way over to Hagrid’s cottage and suffered himself to be made a perfectly-dreadful cup of tea.

“Well?” he snapped.

Hagrid hung his head.

“Spit it out, man!”

“I just wanted to say, sir, if yeh ever need to... I mean, sometimes I ‘elp the wild ones, in the Forest.”

“Would you mind telling me what you’re blithering about, Hagrid?”

“Vampires, sir,” said Hagrid respectfully.

“Ah. Have the third-year been spreading rumours again?”

“Creatures ain’t only me job, sir, they’re me passion. I can tell, but I shouldn’t think anyone else can see it.”

Snape considered the offer seriously. In some parallel universe where big, muscular, _hairy_ men were his type, he could imagine being attracted to Hagrid. Unfortunately, they weren’t, and Hagrid wasn’t a powerful enough wizard to make his blood the right ‘flavour’.

“Thank you for the offer, but that won’t be necessary,” he said, hoping he was right.

 

 

 

 

The first-years smelt sweet, innocent and delicious (in, thank Merlin, no-more-than-edible terms). Given a classful of them, the smell was undifferentiated, pure and—bearable.

In any case, since he didn’t have paedophilic tendencies and was less-than-fascinated by little children, perhaps his mind didn’t interpret them in any worse way.

Older children, with more distinctive personalities, tended to develop more specific scents.

A couple of days later, he had his first seventh-year lesson.

He had been attracted to some of the seventh-year boys _anyway,_ even though what he had of strict moral principles insisted he would never lay a finger on them. The convergence of this desire with vampirism was...disturbing.

Draco Malfoy smelled like a meal of roast chicken with rich gravy and just a glass of good wine he would never be able to afford (the sort of dinner he’d occasionally shared with the boy’s father). Then the reactions would ‘flip’ from food to sex, and Malfoy would smell like musky-perfumed nakedness on expensive silk sheets.

Also, with that clear skin, Snape could practically see the blood flowing through the boy’s veins.

He’d rather expected that much, but he’d forgotten that since a vampire’s desire for blood was magically-active (which was why animal blood was unsatisfying), he’d react more powerfully to a powerful wizard.

Which meant his reaction to Harry Potter was right off the scale.

Oh, he’d _known_ Potter was a stronger natural wizard than such a boy had any right to be, but he’d known it intellectually. He could smell not any one food but a strong complex feast laid out for him. He could smell pure sex: intense and slightly-musky and nothing to do with perfume.

He wanted desperately to suck Harry Potter. And fuck him. Preferably at the same time: fangs and prick sinking in at the same moment.

 

 

 

 

That night, he found he had a problem.

It was fairly easy to determine, using his sense of smell and his intelligence, which of the several herbal mixtures he’d created should be mixed with blood and drunk.

The preparation was the easy part.

He looked at the repellent mixture in his cauldron, which looked as if he’d have to slice it, and carefully added some drops of a Potion he used as a decoagulant. Now at least he’d be able to pour it out.

He’d intended to use a wooden bowl, but either tipping it up or lapping it like a cat would be too uncivilised, so he decanted some slightly-warmed mixture into a clean wine-glass.

Unfortunately, once he had his glass of cow’s blood and herbs in front of him, he felt absolutely no desire to drink it. He might _possibly_ be able to drink it without vomiting, if he was lucky.

What on _earth_ did vampires do to make the stuff palatable? What was he missing?

The answer was unexpected. He noticed he’d slopped a little of the stuff on the table while pouring, and rubbed it away with his hand. Wondering why it was so unpleasant when his mind and body seemed to have spent the last few days trying to tell him it was what he needed, he brought his fingers to his face, sniffed... and almost fell off his chair as a wave of lust brought teeth, prick and every hair on his body erect in an instant.

For whatever reason, his body didn’t seem to react to artificial drinking-vessels in the same way, but this seemed to fool it. Magical aura lingering on the skin? Some sort of primitive desire for fresh blood through skin?

He wasn’t sure, and didn’t particularly care. If this made it possible for him to go on, he’d do it.

Snape lay back in his chair and spread his legs as far as he could, hissing with annoyance when he realised that his clothes were impeding him. He liked the tickle of his own long fingers teasing his balls and thighs, but he didn’t want the effort of undressing. Instead, he plunged the flat of one hand between his legs, pressing it comfortingly in place.

A fantasy came to mind. Potter was in detention, and had cut himself preparing a heap of ingredients. His very favourite things: sharp knives, meticulous preparations—and the chance to castigate Harry Potter.

He glared at his own lap. _I said ‘castigate’, you fool!_ he reminded it firmly.

It didn’t seem to care.

“Boy, have you no sense of danger?” the version of himself in his mind’s eye said, while his hand reached for the glass, tipped a few drops of the mixture into his palm, and licked.

Potter stood there, dumbstruck and trembling (this was _his_ imagination, and he could ignore the fact that Potter had never seemed particularly cowed even when he ought to have been).

He reached for his wand and undressed, so that he could take himself in hand nicely.

In his mind, he prepared to start on a series of lovingly-crafted insults, each one more vicious than the last.

“Even your hair is positively insubordinate, Potter,” he started, squeezing his prick greedily just as he lapped at the careful few drops of his restorative in the palm of his other hand.

Potter didn’t say anything to that, because this was _Snape’s_ fantasy, and he might have to listen to the little swine talking back in lessons but not in his own head.

“You look as if you’ve been brought up by some primitive tribe that has never discovered the use of a comb,” he said, gasping slightly. If he wasn’t careful he wouldn’t last—and he was _certain_ he had much better insults in store.

“Or maybe you were—you spend a lot of time with the Weasleys, and they seem to fit the bill.” He rubbed his thumb lightly round the tip, and sighed. He’d better last out—insulting the boy’s coiffure was mere light foreplay.

“But I shouldn’t merely remark upon your unkemptness, Potter. It’s far more important for a boy of your age to be concerned with your education. Except in your case that’s just an _incidental,_ isn’t it?” he added nastily, pouring a slightly larger amount of his restorative into his cupped hand and sucking it up eagerly. “You’re far more concerned with what you are doing after hours.”

He was well away by this time, hand working himself to a frenzy. All sorts of thoughts rose to the surface of his mind, like _I’d like to mess that hair of yours up properly, while you suck me!_ and _am I really such a miserable bastard that this is my poor substitute for intimacy?_ and _who cares?_ and he was nearly there...

“You think rules are something that happen to _other_ people, don’t you Potter?” he went on, trying not to drool.

“Well, _you_ certainly do, sir,” said the Potter in his mind’s eye, looking at him very directly.

Snape gave an inquiring groan.

“I mean, not many teachers would be so excited by telling me off that they’d have to play with themselves, sir. Do you do it often?” Snape noticed his mind’s ear had got Potter’s tone perfectly right: all surface respect on top of something rather different.

“Usually wait...for you to leave the room!” Snape explained breathlessly. This was quite true; he’d had a couple of rather memorable orgasms while thinking about explaining the error of his ways to Potter. Not that that counted as ‘often’. Not that he should have been thinking about it _at all_. Ever.

This time, as he reached for his drink, he slopped the whole last portion of it into his palm and clumsily slapped it against his mouth.

Every separate droplet hit his tongue in an explosion of stinging pleasure, and he squeezed blissfully and gushed, imagining streams and gobbets of the stuff going all over Potter.

The pleasure was strong enough to blank everything else out for at least ten seconds.

Wanting to know the worst, he went to glance in the mirror.

He’d chosen the wine-glass to keep his unpleasant addiction under a thin veneer of civilisation. If he _had_ to be a vampire he might as well be the elegant morose type.

Instead, he looked a wreck, visibly sweaty and covered in blood- and semen-stains.

Some irrational fragment of his personality wanted someone to hold. _It had better not be Potter,_ he told it sternly. He’d probably sooner cut his arms off than cuddle Potter. Or he hoped he would.

What a distressing experience. He’d better be careful not to do it again.

 

 

 

The next day was first, second and third years all through. While he had previously impartially loathed all pupils, of whatever age, he had to admit that the younger ones were easier to deal with.

He noticed that after his debauch it took a while for the smells to build up again, but late in the afternoon there they were.

All the food-smells were simple, sweet, inviting: the sorts of nursery foodstuffs he’d never had during his actual childhood. Cinnamon toast. Vanilla. Gingerbread. Porridge with sugar. Comfort foods.

The effect was very curious in a Potions dungeon.

He was shaking slightly. He would try having a heartier meal than usual.

At dinner-time the meal was a roast. Grimly, he helped himself to a large plateful with all the extras (carrots, Yorkshire puddings, sauce, gravy, even sprouts).

He took a large bite. As he’d suspected, this made no difference at all to his other appetite, and his unwelcome dental enhancement tended to get stuck in the meat when he tried to chew.

He wondered if _other_ vampires had this sort of problem. It hadn’t been mentioned in the one first-person account he’d managed to find, which was high on rhetoric and low on practical details. There was probably a sort of knack to dealing with the things.

Just to make things worse, Potter was staring at him. Of course, they’d been staring at each other, for one or other reason, for years, but he didn’t want to be watched while he was trying to drag his recalcitrant fangs out of the grip of a piece of beef.

Pudding was rice pudding with syrup. It made him think of a massed crowd of first years, and smelt absolutely delicious, except that every time he put a spoonful in his mouth his fangs would itch and remind him it wasn’t what he really wanted.

What he really wanted was the full banquet leaning on the Gryffindor table and squinting at him very suspiciously.

Potter couldn’t really see much. Snape blessed whoever had decided to keep a certain distance between pupils and teachers in Hogwarts tradition: very likely the children couldn’t see the sharp little points growing from his teeth.

Hagrid was sitting beside him, talking loudly and leaning forward, presumably to shield him from the gazes of others.

Closing his lips hurriedly, he looked round at the rest of the staff. Trelawney was muttering something about Dark and Nameless Evil, but he was fairly sure no more than the mad old bat did regularly.

As for how _he_ was feeling, _he_ couldn’t be having any reactions to _Potter,_ because of the distance. But his fangs had started twitching before he’d realised that Potter was looking at him, and now the wild heat and hunger was crawling up his veins a million times _worse_ than his reactions to the younger children.

Unfortunately, he had a detention to sit through after dinner.

Flinging down his spoon in disgust and his dish, Snape strode down to the dungeon.

What he wanted was a good hard fuck and a mouthful fresh from the vein. What it was going to have to be... (he slammed the door behind him furiously) ...was a few drops of his restorative and a hand-job. He got the bottle down with shaking hands, poured himself a small handful, and lapped it down, massaging his prick consolingly through his clothes. At this inopportune moment, he heard a knock at the door.

Malfoy (politely), Potter and Weasley (less politely) were reporting in for their detention.

Putting his drink on the desk he went to the door and opened it noiselessly. He was wearing more than normal wizardly practice suggested: not only his usual tight underwear, but trousers over that.

His mouth was clamped grimly shut.

He was nearly sure that nothing showed.

He nodded briefly to his victims, and let them in.

As they settled down to wash out cauldrons, Snape became aware of a furiously-muttered conversation in three-part disharmony:

“Finally you’ve got into some trouble you couldn’t slime your way out of, Malfoy.”

“Piss off, Weasel.”

“Leave it, Ron. He isn’t worth it.”

The last voice was no louder, no more striking, no more mellifluous than the others. It was a perfectly-normal seventh-year voice, just like all the others that had plagued him for years. The average nauseatingly-volatile mixture of hormones, morals and playfulness. It shouldn’t go straight to his balls that way, making them hot and heavy and impatient.

He was rather relieved that his restorative didn’t have much effect unless he licked it off skin. That was probably the only thing that kept his hand out of his clothes.

Casting a rough glamour across himself, he shivered.

“Looks as though he’s just bitten into a sourer lemon than usual, Harry,” said Weasel (the Malfoy brat had got _him_ doing it now, and he’d grown out of such epithets around the age these boys were now).

Potter muttered something. Despite straining every nerve to hear it, Snape couldn’t. Although it sounded...sympathetic.

_How dare he!_

Resting his hands on the table in front of him, Snape saw every crack and imperfection with a sudden strange clarity, and thought of a hawk observing every blade of grass between it and its prey.

His prey looked up immediately, and pierced him with a green green gaze.

“What’s he up to?” whispered Weasley loudly.

 _Trying not to explode,_ thought Snape crossly, pressing his crotch with one hand under the table. He was resting his head on his hand, trying not to drool against his wrist. He could feel the blood beat fast and hot against his mouth. His fangs began to rise until they rested against his own skin; it was a little frightening to realise how easily he could slip into his own vein. A sterile and un-nourishing form of masturbation (that wasn’t even mentioned in the book he’d read), but he still wanted to.

All three of them were close enough to smell.

Weasley smelt like stew. Hot, rich, slightly gamy, with little chunks of some unidentifiable meat hiding bashfully under masses of good plain vegetables. Oh god, redheads had such pure pale _fragile_ skin. He wanted to bury his face in the tender skin and suck till the blood rose...

Turning his attention repressively on Malfoy, he discovered things were no better. Malfoy (and his father) had always looked rather insipid and washed out before he’d been turned, but then Snape hadn’t realised that the delicate blush was quite so...erotic...before he’d been turned. He remembered Lucius had used to talk about sex a lot when he was young, and gave the general impression that he’d be happy to mount anything that stayed still long enough. The younger Severus Snape had taken a long cool (and apparently unmanning) look back at Lucius, and decided he could take him or leave him. He wished he had the grace of such a response to Malfoy junior.

He _hurt._ And when he looked at Potter it was even worse. His fangs began to extend, slowly, itching in his mouth. Potter didn’t quite have Malfoy’s fair translucent skin. It wasn’t _blood_ Snape was aware of so much as magic.

He could almost smell and taste the stuff, fizzing in Potter’s blood with sparks of unused energy. Now he could see what made Potter’s hair such an insubordinate mess: a medusa-tangle of magic coursing to the ends, whizzing back and forth, looking for a way out. Snape had been a wizard for nearly forty years, but he’d never been a creature _made_ of magic before now.

It was giving him an unexpected insight into Potter. A Muggle for eleven years, then thrown into a world where he was a hero, a wizard. Small wonder that he was usually to be found at the centre of a small whirlpool of utter chaos, looking blank. Magic hadn’t been the grinding fierce search for knowledge that Snape had grown up with. It hadn’t been there, and then all too much of it _had._ Now Snape could understand that, because now Snape could see it. _This_ was what natural magic was like unmediated by intellect.

Every breath Potter exhaled glowed with a colour beyond colour.

Detention was torture. Well, it always _was,_ of course, but it wasn’t meant to be torture for _him._ He usually enjoyed the chance to get on with a bit of marking while watching them seethe, knowing that they were getting more-and-more wound-up all the time. Now he knew how they felt.

Every endless hour of it.

 

 

 

Harry Potter pulled the door shut behind him as he left.

“D’you think he’s all right?” he whispered to Ron.

“Who? _Snape?_ He’s big enough and ugly enough to look after himself, isn’t he?” Ron said in that _are-you-insane?_ tone he tended to keep for times when Harry hadn’t got a clue about how the wizarding world worked.

Harry wondered uncomfortably whether people would say something similar about _him._ He could well imagine people saying: “but he’s the Boy Who _Lived_ , he can’t be afraid!”

He’d been used to Snape being unflappable until his third year, and then he’d seen a man on the edge: furious, flawed and driven.

“Come _on_ , Harry!” said Ron, heading away at a swift run.

Harry wished he could fancy someone _nice_ , like Ron. _Or Hermione_ , he thought, as he saw her step neatly to the top of the stairs.

He watched Ron watch Hermione. At least he didn’t have to fancy Ron while Ron fancied Hermione.

“My god,” said Ron mildly, “I don’t know what he’s up to, but he doesn’t look well on it.”

Hermione gave him a sharp, interested glance. “You know, I’ve been _wondering_ whether he was on something.

“On something?” Ron echoed blankly.

“Drugs.” Hermione said knowledgeably. “Like Muggles. But wizards have a completely different set of bad habits.”

“So what d’you think he’s on?” Ron asked, slinging a “companionable” arm around Hermione so artlessly that she didn’t seem to notice.

“Blood,” she said, with a trace of ghoulish relish.

Ron yelped, flinched, and hastily stopped cuddling her.

“I thought _you_ wouldn’t mind my saying something horrible about Professor Snape,” said Hermione.

“What?” said Ron.

“He’s a hypocrite, for one thing.” Apparently she noticed that this wasn’t the desired gossip bombshell. “I mean, when you think about what he did to poor Professor Lupin, it _is_ downright hypocritical,” she added indignantly. “I mean, to think of him frothing at the mouth about our safety and getting Professor Lupin sacked, and him being a vampire all along...”

 _“What?!?”_ said Ron and Harry in unison.

“I’ve only thought about it this week, but it makes perfect sense.”

“But he eats dinners with the school,” protested Ron.

“Oh, _honestly!”_ said Hermione. “Just because you don’t see him sitting down to a rare steak washed down by a glass of medium O negative doesn’t mean he’s not a vampire,” she added scathingly. “It’s more like a drug than a dinner even if they do call it feeding,” she added.

“I’ve seen him at Quidditch matches,” added Harry. “He doesn’t shrivel up in terrible agony except when Gryffindor get a goal.”

 _“How_ much background reading did you do for Dark-Arts?” Hermione demanded irritably. “And have you ever seen him come to the matches in summer?”

“Last year,” said Ron.

“Wettest summer known to wizard,” she added succinctly. “Was the sun shining?”

“Can’t remember.”

“It wasn’t. He only goes out when it’s cloudy, or at night.” Hermione said. “I’m sure of my facts here; I’ve read all the books in the library on vampires except _Sexual Habits of the Common Vampire._ ”

Ron made realistic sick noises.

“Not like you to leave one out,” said Harry, trying to distract himself from the thought of Snape _having_ any sexual habits, which was remarkably distracting in itself.

“I don’t carry my thirst for knowledge to the point of wanting to snog—or worse—Professor Snape, thank you very much!” said Hermione, tossing her head.

“Good,” said Ron, putting an arm round her protectively.

“Good,” said Harry, wanting to keep the idea to himself until he discovered what to do with it.

 

 

 

 

Harry did _try_ not to think about the-sexual-life-of-the-vampire. Several times.

The trouble was, he always _had_ fancied the man, at least since he was old enough. Cho had been the first flare of the match, but he’d been rather unnervingly capable of having passing thoughts about anybody in a blaze of curious hormones.

At one point he’d sat himself down and explained to himself that there were limits, and even if Voldemort had been quite attractive as a boy there were places that the human mind Should Not Go.

He’d also been slightly ashamed of the idea of fantasising about his friends (it wasn’t fair because they’d think less of him if they knew).

If not friends or Eternal Universal Enemies, then, who was he left thinking about? After his crush on Wood (the eyes, the muscles, the bum, the gorgeous Scots voice) had died away naturally, he’d been rather frustrated at his self-imposed rules.

His attraction to Snape might have started as a matter of expediency _(hey! Snape’s neither a friend nor an enemy, not quite...and it makes Potions less boring)_. He was still slightly surprised that the feeling had stayed with him so long, but Snape was never dull. Unpleasant, unfair, rivetingly nasty, with any number of strange (probably invented) personality disorders...yes, all of that, just not dull.

 

 

 

About the fourteenth time, when he realised he was spending a lot of time wondering about something he knew nothing about, he decided to take a leaf out of Hermione’s book. Or at least out of the one book she hadn’t read yet.

He trotted down to the Library ten minutes before it shut, wriggled into his cloak deep in the stacks, and headed for the Restricted Section.

 _Sexual Habits of The Vampire_ tried to bite him, of course. He was glad he was wearing gloves. Once he’d opened it firmly, it did not struggle.

Time, for once, to follow Hermione’s example and try research.

He had no idea vampires even _had_ a sex-life.

Then he started to read, and began to wonder if vampires ever did anything _else..._

“The adult vampire has extremely strong sexual responses and is magically sensitive. If a human is sexually-mature and magically-powerful, the vampire will feel an almost unendurable need for sex.”

Harry swallowed. His own erection tapped restlessly at the tightness of his clothes.

“Imagine, if you will, a vampire locked in the synaesthesia of need to feed. His nose will give him strange unreliable messages about food in abnormal situations. His fangs and erectile tissue will all react strongly...”

 _Was he looking at anyone during dinner? Well, I think he was looking at me, but I thought he was just...glaring, at the time. There was something weird about his mouth, but I couldn’t quite see..._ Harry thought.

Somewhere halfway through the first lovingly-detailed description of insatiable vampire sexual appetite, he got an erection—or rather, _realised_ he had got an erection.

“Only the strongest-minded vampires will be able to resist the urge to any extent.”

 _That’s him,_ thought Harry, completely certain. Harry suspected that if anyone _could_ resist the siren-song of sex, while being a complete bastard about the whole thing, it was probably Severus Snape.

The victim, to Harry’s surprise, wasn’t actually in much danger from anyone he knew and trusted. Apparently, some wizards fed vampires ‘for mutual pleasure and comfort’, which explained a couple of jokes he’d heard in Hogsmeade when he wasn’t meant to be there. It wasn’t mentioned in polite society, of course, but it seemed to be a damn sight more legal than all the things _he_ wanted to do with Professor Snape. He sighed. Actually, that gave him an idea.

 

 

 

The next Double Potions became a long, slow-burn, subtle seduction scene. He was very careful not to drop obvious hints, but to keep looking, and look away every time Snape looked back. Uncertainty unnerved Snape. Good.

He managed to drop some less-vile-than-usual ingredients and get them on his hands, then lounged comfortably against the desk, wiping his hands on his robes.

“Damn, I’m all wet and sticky now,” he murmured, just as Snape walked past on the way to the cupboard.

And—how upsetting—there was now a small heap of wet leaves by his foot. Which meant he had to bend down and pick them up. He did _that_ as Snape walked back from the cupboard.

He wasn’t wearing anything under his robes, which was quite a sacrifice in the chilly dungeon. Well, nothing except a dash of bloodweed extract he’d got from Sprout: the book had said that was catnip for vampires.

Nobody had done anything dreadful all lesson, which meant that with a little help from Neville in the last five minutes, he managed to pull a solo Detention. Filch had the ‘flu. With luck, it wouldn’t even _occur_ to Snape that anybody would want a detention with him.

He’d been known to talk in Snape’s detentions before: he could only get away with that on his own, because with several people there Snape wouldn’t let anyone get away with it. Also, if Snape’s malice was reasonably lively, he _definitely_ wouldn’t let anyone get away with it. But sometimes, just _sometimes,_ if Snape had been having a difficult week, Harry could practically see him decide it would be more trouble to pursue the issue than to ignore it. If Harry got it right, Snape would get on with marking or research, only stabbing a needle-sharp insult into the conversation every so often. Almost companionable.

This time, Harry nattered (a comfortable, ignorable, quiet murmur) about nothing-in-particular, and only got the odd comment about ‘the trouble with Gryffindors is they’re afraid their brains’ll seize up if their mouths aren’t working’.

He’d missed dinner to be here, so some of the nattering was about food. Snape was ignoring it. Good.

Quickly passing over the delights of the meat and fish courses, he began to let his verbal imagery fly with his description of dessert.

“I like the taste of meringues, the way they crumble on the tongue. And honey, smearing it over my fingers and _licking_. Sod it, now I’m randy as well as hungry.”

He could see the formidable self-control break, just for a second, just in the look in those dark eyes.

“I haven’t had a shag for months, and I do miss sex _awfully_ ,” said Harry. “Going at it hot and heavy, until I’m...all fucked out on the carpet.”

Again, that look. Hot, fierce, miserable. Snape had very possibly not had sex for decades, if the gossip was true.

“Do you imagine I am unaccustomed to rejecting the wearisome advances of more-than-usually reckless students?” Snape said, eventually.

“No,” said Harry. “But I’m better.”

“Can it be,’ drawled Snape wearily, “that the rule about teachers not bedding students is yet another one that applies to everyone except Harry Potter?”

Harry’s first instinct was, of course, to splutter, “That’s not true!” Carefully, instead, he said, “I don’t _just_ want to because it’s against the rules.”

“But that’s a large part of it?” Snape suggested dryly.

“Sir, I daresay I spend less time thinking about breaking the rules than you do thinking about _me_ breaking them.”

“Hmph.” Snape almost sounded amused.

“Would it be breaking the rules to ask you to come here and unbutton my robes?” Harry asked.

“You know very well it would.”

“In that case I’ll keep my clothes on.”

“One may be thankful for small mercies.” Snape sounded slightly relieved.

“So here,” said Harry, padding up to Snape in his chair, “I’ll keep my clothes on and I won’t seduce you.”

“I find that about as reassuring as hearing a Slytherin saying the same thing,” said Snape.

“Oddly enough, the Hat told me I could be in Slytherin if I wanted. Only one I’d met was Malfoy. Told it no thank you.”

“Hardly the most shining example,” Snape murmured.

“No. Should have met you first.”

Snape snorted. “I _know_ what you thought of me.”

“Didn’t you know I’ve learned?” Harry murmured, nibbling an ear. He _had._ Although he probably wouldn’t have dared to approach Snape without Snape’s...peculiarity, he had been attracted for a while.

“Learned what?”

“Learned I like you. And want you.”

Snape looked coolly at him. “Do you imagine I fall into your arms at this point?”

“No. I told you I won’t even take my clothes off.”

“Then what do you feel you have to offer?” Snape glared.

“I don’t want to shag...” Harry ran his hands through his hair, “well, I _do,_ of course, but I’ll settle for something legal.”

He kissed Snape gently on the lips. “Want a taste?”

“No I do _not_ want a—!”

Harry wriggled up into Snape’s arms.

“I said I have no intention of...” Snape went on stubbornly.

Harry rested his throat against Snape’s mouth, and as Snape opened his mouth to breathe, a long cool fang slid against Harry’s skin.

 _“No!”_ said Snape, pushing him away.

“It’s legal, and I trust you not to kill me or turn me.”

“You’re insane!” Snape’s eyes widened (which was practically a faint, from him).

Harry wriggled again, and got himself against Snape’s mouth. He felt the cold slide of the fang raise the little hairs on his neck, and murmured, “Taste me.”

He felt the warmth of Snape’s lips sealing mouth to throat, and then the stirring of air and wetness of tongue, and that smooth cool fang again. _This is it now,_ he thought.

To his surprise, nothing happened.

The fang withdrew. Harry moaned softly, and pulled Snape against him.

Snape said, “I thought you weren’t trying to seduce me.”

“I’m diplomatically not-mentioning I have a hard-on you could hammer nails with,” said Harry. “So as to make things easier for you.”

Snape snorted.

“You can’t have me, sir,” Harry said reasonably. “You can drink me though.”

He wriggled and slid again, smooth neck rubbing against Snape’s lips.

“It’s not just altruism, if that helps. I read in the book that the victim, shall we say, gets his own rewards.” He nibbled Snape’s ear.

Snape moaned a little.

“Go on, sir. You’re safe with me.”

“Which of the myriad meanings of the word is _that_ , Potter?” Snape said acidly.

Harry slid a comforting arm round him. “I won’t let you fuck me, sir. Just...” Again, he rubbed his throat against Snape’s mouth, which was hot and wet and trembling with eagerness.

“I can’t...” Snape moaned, but his fangs were fully erect now.

Harry drew back a little to admire them. To his relief, they didn’t look as unconvincing as the ones in Muggle vampire movies. Looked as if they came out of small, discreet sheaths: wouldn’t be seen at a casual glance, but visible close-to.

He traced one fang with a finger-tip.

Snape shuddered all over.

“Does that hurt?” he asked.

“Not...exactly.” Snape’s tone suggested that it was rather...intimate.

“Oh!” Harry had a nasty feeling that he was blushing, but decided to take advantage of the discovery anyway. Kissing Snape on the mouth, he dived his tongue between the parted lips and used his tongue to trace the small, sharp shapes.

When he stopped, Snape was panting.

Harry kissed his way up the jawline to Snape’s ear, licked, and murmured, “Is that enough foreplay? I’m not too good at it, I just get...greedy.”

He kissed his way across Snape’s face, the mountain of nose, down again: lips, went for his other ear, so that his throat was resting against Snape’s mouth.

“I bet,” he whispered, “you can feel my pulse against your lips.”

To his relief (as he had _no idea_ what he could have tried if _that_ didn’t work), that particular tease did the trick. Snape grabbed him, licked and sucked at his throat for a few minutes, and went in carefully.

Harry could hardly believe how little pain there was. The fangs were so sharp, so delicate, that he felt the pull of drawn blood almost at the moment he was bitten, more intense than the bite itself.

He could hear Snape groan softly against his neck.

He’d have wondered how it felt, if a sudden flow of luscious heat hadn’t shot all the way through him, igniting that spot on his neck and...other things... at once. He wondered if it felt that good for Snape, and wriggled. Mm. He liked the feel of Snape against him: the warmth of his belly surprisingly apparent through his robe, and then the heavy length of his prick.

Quickly, greedily, he reached for that shape, stroked it, and began to undo a few buttons one-handed.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Snape muttered against his throat.

“What?” Harry said, and kept working on the buttons, which seemed a lot more important than what Snape was saying. Suddenly a few buttons gave way, and he had a handful of excited prick. Snape groaned against his throat, and Harry felt the pulse of excitement as his hand stroked pleasure into Snape. Somehow this made up for every time he hadn’t managed to surprise or coax or con an expression to that mask of a face. He couldn’t see Snape’s face, but he didn’t need to.

Fascinated, Harry explored the wet tip until it quivered. Soaked velvet. He imagined it hungry for touch, sucking up the feel of Harry’s own fingertips. Mm. Like a little, strange animal curling and stretching, kissing him with its small mouth.

Snape groaned into his throat and pushed against his hand.

Harry stopped. He might want Snape to have a good time, but not _quite_ yet.

Blood throbbed warmly between his throat and his cock.

He moved his hand down hastily, sweeping it down the length for the sheer pleasure of it: hot and smooth until he came to a crisp tickle of hair. Mm. The warmth of cock through it, and the quiver that meant Snape was so eager he wanted to be touched on prick and balls and hair...everywhere.

Harry looked down. Snape’s hand was clamped in his own robe as if he were about to tear a hole in it.

He reached down and coaxed the hand open, applying it to his own groin. Firmly. As firmly as _he_ was doing it. For once, he was giving _Snape_ a practical lesson, saying, without words, _hard and slow, that’s the way._

His eyes closed. From the way Snape burrowed his face into Harry’s throat and kept working his cock, he wasn’t objecting. As for Harry, he couldn’t think about abstract questions. Long strong fingers wrapped round his prick until it was about to burst, and Snape was still sucking at him mightily and occasionally licking at his throat as if not to miss a drop.

Wanting something to do with his other hand, Harry reached down and rubbed Snape between the legs: mm, thighs were nice, Snape seemed to like his thighs attended to as much as _he_ did. _Wonder if he likes..._ Harry answered that question by squeezing Snape’s balls, gently but firmly.

Snape swore against his throat, sucked even harder, and came violently, great splatters of it all over both of them. Harry kept holding him until every last shudder had quieted, then sighed and let go.

Snape looked impressively debauched, even though his face soon returned to its normal inexpressiveness. _What’s he going to do now—castrate me?_ Harry thought, with a predictable wilting on his part. He tucked his part away.

Harry sighed. “Oh, soddit, _that_ fucks it all up, then. Not that I was planning all this, but...” Oh well, on the credit side, Snape coming like a maniac all over him would be good fantasy material for _weeks._

“I do not believe I dismissed you, Potter,” Snape said, very coldly, as Harry turned his back.

Harry turned round.

“Nor did I tell you to rearrange your clothes. Even the most rudimentary understanding of manners should suggest following your host’s dress-code.”

Translating this, with some effort, from Severish, Harry undid himself again. Damn. He was getting hard again.

Snape looked at him. There was no expression on Snape’s face, and Harry got more and more eager despite the end with the brain telling the end with the erection that Snape would now be far keener on humiliating him than sex.

Snape traced Harry’s prick with a fingertip. “You’re leaking, Potter. It’s making my good clean dungeon untidy.”

Harry glanced at the handiwork of several generations of spiders.

Snape followed his gaze. “I practice organic pest-control thanks to Mrs Norris and the spiders. Not that it’s any of your business. Which doesn’t change the fact that it’s disgusting to drip your bodily fluids on the floor.”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry muttered, vaguely surprised that Snape had left him enough blood to blush with, between the feeding-session and his rapidly-returning enthusiasm. “I’ll just go to the bathroom and clean myself up.”

“Haven’t I already told you that I cannot trust you with even the most _menial_ of tasks,” Snape sneered. “If I want anything done properly in this dungeon...” Snape thumped out of the chair onto his knees, not entirely gracefully.

Harry gaped as Snape glared up at him.

“...I am _forced_ to do it myself,” Snape said, placing his mouth gently around the source of the untidiness.

Harry swallowed.

So did Snape; a luscious rippling suck that felt _amazing._

 _Should be afraid he’d bite it off,_ Harry thought. He wasn’t, although that could be because his brains were heading too far south to care. He wondered if vampires actually needed to breathe, and decided on the evidence not. Then he wondered if vampires could retract _all_ their teeth when they weren’t using them, and decided on the evidence probably. Felt like it, anyway. Nothing but smooth wet throat right where he needed it, tightening again and again— _fuck!_ —every pulse of climax most satisfyingly teased and coaxed and swallowed until he was drained.

Harry wanted to tell Snape how good that had been. Instead, he looked down at his rather used and crumpled teacher, and gave him a hand up and a quick wipe with his wand.

“Appalling technique, Potter,” said Snape between gasps, “that’s the magical equivalent of spitting in your hankie and wiping it. You do it like this.” He muttered something, barely moving his wand.

Snape’s clothes slowly remembered being ironed and clean and forgot about the sex, with a delicate flutter.

Snape, apparently quite tired, gasped, looking a little unsteady on his feet.

“Your technique’s beautiful, sir,” said Harry.

Snape glared at him.

“I _meant,_ with your wand,” said Harry. “Sit down a minute.”

Snape must have been very tired. He did.

“That’s better,” Harry said. “How _was_ my technique, as a matter of interest?”

The nasty, malicious glint in Snape’s eyes gave him a little warning.

“Go on,” he added therefore. “Tell me I need the practice. Please.”

Snape’s lips twitched. “You were barely adequate, Potter. Go away.”

Harry sat down and slid an arm round Snape. Since the chair was built to intimidate pupils from, it wasn’t comfortable, but it _was_ large. “Thank you.” He sighed, and collapsed on Snape’s shoulder.

“I didn’t say good.”

“Obviously I need to work at it,” said Harry happily.

Snape didn’t say anything. He looked half-asleep, which must have been difficult in a chair like that.

Harry got up, and with a mixture  of a ‘lightweight’ spell and tugging at his professor’s arm, managed to coax him upright.

The bedroom was easy to find, but less easy to open.

He tried all the complicated ‘unlocking’ spells he could find, but couldn’t get past whatever ward his most (justifiably, he supposed) paranoid professor found necessary.

Eventually, possibly out of sheer weariness, Snape muttered, “Blackworm ooze”, and the door slid open. Harry’s mouth twitched. If Dumbledore chose sweets, of course Snape would choose the more disgusting ingredients.

The bed was large and imposing. Harry had got used to four-poster beds being a matter of course here, but he wasn’t at all accustomed to seeing them gloomily apparelled in silver-and-black with a green snake design. The headboard was impressive, but it looked as if it ought to be done in marble, with an epitaph.

Snape kicked his boots off and lay down, crossing his hands on his chest and looking altogether too much like an effigy for Harry’s peace of mind.

Harry managed to get Snape undressed and under the covers, by dint of muttering at him until Snape did what he wanted, and then kicked and nudged and wrapped himself around Snape until Snape’s posture looked a little less as if it belonged in a mausoleum. Actually, he could do with a nap himself...

 

 

 

He’d dropped off with his neck in an awkward position, one hand had gone to sleep under something heavy, and someone was snoring nearby.

Ah. He remembered. He might not  quite _believe_ that if he crooked his neck round he would see Professor Snape.... He looked round.

There was Snape, fast asleep on his back. He had some colour in his cheeks after his feed, and he looked rather endearingly satisfied. With a small shock, Harry remembered Snape was much the same age as his godfather. Snape looked ten years older than his actual age. Actually, some of that might be the relaxation following sleep and sex—half the time, in a bad mood, Snape looked _twenty_ years older than he was. Or, considering the ageing process among wizards, fifty.

Still completely tempting. Snape licked his lips, still sleeping, and Harry upped that to ‘irresistible’. He was also determined not to resist it. So he didn’t. Lying as close as he could get along Snape’s long body (and wishing he was tall enough to enjoy all of it at once), he wriggled slowly and rhythmically against one thigh. Bliss. All the blood in his body seemed to sink heavily into that one place: prick and balls resting against that warmth, which wasn’t corpse-like at all. Every tiny movement sent sharp sparks of delightful friction all through him. The most important thing in the world was between his thighs, and he clenched onto it in a frenzy, again and again, until the feeling flashed gold behind his eyes and roared in his ears, and he was dizzy with the weight rushing to that single turning-point at the tip of his cock and _out._ He clung on in soaking, giddy rapture as the world spun around him.

He almost laughed, a second later, at his own vague surprise at finding that the thing between his legs was a thigh and not a broom: obviously he _had_ been overdoing the Quidditch lately. He wouldn’t tell Snape that.

That had been a bloody gorgeous way to start the day, Harry thought. He was still tingling all over.

“Are there any more experiments in non-consensual sex you would like to perform, or am I free to get up now?” Snape asked nastily.

Harry looked at him blankly. There was no humour in his expression.

“I didn’t rape you. I didn’t even fuck you. I didn’t do anything we didn’t do last night!” Harry said, scrambling off.

“Last night. I don’t remember being asked for my opinion then either.” Snape got out of bed and began to busy himself with making tea.

“But you liked it!”

“That is not the determinant.”

“Is it really that bad? I mean, it’s not something _even you_ could dislike, and you don’t have to change your behaviour, or admit anything you don’t want to.”

“Perhaps now I know how little my self-control is worth. I have had less than a month to get used to being something other than a man. My actions could have consequences worse than the average minor venereal disease among wizards.” Hot water hissed angrily onto the tea-leaves.

“Yes, well, you’re not going to...”

“I would prefer not to find out whether I have turned you into the Boy Who Is Undead by mere happenstance, thank you, Potter.”

Harry thought about that. “You know, I don’t think you _would._ ”

“Prevented by my fine sense of morals invisible to the naked eye, no doubt.”

Harry decided Snape had a fine, if maybe warped, sense of morals. Then he decided things would go a _lot_ better if he didn’t actually mention Snape’s morals to Snape.

“Well, I seem to have tested it without trying,” said Harry. “I mean, if you were woken up out of a sound sleep by me seducing you (sorry!) and you didn’t do anything drastic, you probably won’t, although I wouldn’t try it if you hadn’t had any blood for weeks.”

“How can you be so...matter-of-fact about it!” Snape snarled, in a low whisper.

“I’m used to ‘disgusting’, sir. You’ve been making me chop revolting things up for the last six years, for one thing.” Harry grinned cheerfully at him. “Worms. Eyes. Dung beetles. Dung. Zombiewort leaves. Sex with you doesn’t even come _close_ to revolting.”

“Drink your tea,” said Snape coldly, watching him.

“Oh, all right.” He sipped. He didn’t _think_ Snape had put any peculiar things in the tea, it tasted normal, but considering how good Snape was at what he did, the first indication was probably finding yourself climbing up the curtains thinking you were a monkey.

Snape didn’t say anything, just sat there watching Harry as if he were a specimen, and eventually went to the loo.

Harry took the opportunity to tip his mugful back into the teapot.

Snape came back, and went on looking at Harry.

“Drink your tea, sir,” said Harry, calmly.

Snape snorted, poured himself a cup, drank it off, and went on staring.

_Well, whatever it is, I don’t think either of us is poisoned._

“What are you _doing,_ sir?” Harry said, not expecting an answer.

“Waiting for the Veritaserum to work.” Snape took a sharp gasping breath, and Harry thought he went white, although it was difficult to tell.

“You could have just _asked,_ ” said Harry, mildly.

“Trusting people, or facts, or my own intuition, could get people killed. Most importantly, me.”

Harry poured out another cup of tea and drank it down. “Your turn.”

“Why did you decide to pursue this connection with me?” _Always exact,_ Harry thought. _After all, it’s not sex. Not quite._

“Lust. Pity.” Harry sighed. “Sorry. Didn’t want to tell you that.”

Snape looked at him intently. “Go on.”

“Liking—didn’t want to tell you that either. Not ashamed, just being polite.”

 _“Polite?”_ Snape asked, a little incredulously.

“If it’d irritate you, which it would, I’d keep it to myself.”

“Why else?”

“It was the right thing to do, and we’d both enjoy it, and you didn’t even have to admit to wanting it if I jumped you.” Harry thought. “I might have got that bit wrong. Why?”

“Voldemort and company didn’t exactly have a nice concern for voluntary consent. I sometimes think that the tattered shreds of my integrity are all I’ve got left. Then I remember that I chose to dance on a string for Albus for fear of something worse.”

Harry stroked his hand. “We all do. And at least he lets us argue back, not like Riddle.”

“And then does precisely as he chooses anyway.”

Harry said, “Well, in the unlikely event that I bring down Voldemort and Dumbledore sets himself up as the next great lord-and-master of all the Wizarding World, I’ll just have to bring _him_ down, too... What?” he added, as Snape was looking at him as if he’d just developed an extra head.

“You mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course. If freedom’s worth it at _all,_ it’s not just a matter of whose head’s on the coinage, is it?”

“And you don’t want to glory in your power over me, sexual or otherwise?”

Harry lay down on the floor and howled with laughter.

Snape’s lips twitched. Eventually he laughed too.

“I’m following my prick about, and it’s following you,” explained Harry. “While I can ask, how did _you_ feel about all this?”

He could see Snape thinking, better than usual. Evidently Snape had given up being secretive as a bad job, for now.

“Another damn complication I do not need. At least you don’t seem to be the sentimental sort. A bit brighter than I ever gave you credit for, which wouldn’t be difficult.”

“Yes, and?”

“And what?”

“What am I like in bed?” Harry asked, sitting down on the floor beside Snape.

“The best sex I’ve ever had...wipe that grin off your face, Potter; considering I’m comparing you with Voldemort’s lot, a deaf-blind castrato could have done better.”

“What were _they_ like?”

“Voldemort couldn’t get it up unless he could hear screaming. Macnair liked whipping, unless the other participant liked _being_ whipped. Malfoy considered both pain and pleasure refined ecstasies, and inflicted either without really caring which.”

“I think that’s more than I wanted to know.”

“Hard luck, Potter. It was more than _I_ wanted to know, as well.”

Harry put his arms round Snape. Rather to his surprise, Snape seemed to welcome that, so he cuddled up.

“Want some breakfast?” Harry asked, arching back to get his throat against Snape’s lips.

“Considering I’m incapable of lying at the moment, all I can say is ‘yes, very much,’“ Snape admitted.

“Good. You have a good suck at that and pull at _that...”_ Harry drew Snape’s hand to his prick, “and then we’ll get up and have some food for second course.”

“How on earth did I end up in bed with someone this... _uncomplicated?”_ Snape murmured, sounding slightly bemused.

“Shut up and suck me.” If he concentrated, he could feel the fangs go in, Harry discovered. It didn’t really hurt, though. The first luscious wave of whatever chemical it was went through him just as Snape began to masturbate him with confident vigour.

Three strokes brought him to a roaring orgasm, pinned between sharp fangs and working hand, and the next second he felt the fangs withdraw.

“You haven’t finished yet.” He wriggled against Snape’s hard prick.

“I’ve had enough blood.”

With intent, he pulled down his pyjama trousers and wriggled his naked bottom against Snape, who muttered a muffled curse and began to grind against him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked on impulse. Between Veritaserum and sex, this was one of the rare moments he could ask that and be answered.

“I’m looking forward to you leaving school,” Snape answered, still frotting against him.

“You don’t want me to stay around?” Harry wondered what the hell Snape was thinking about that _now_ for.

“Potter, the day you leave my care I am going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit a broom for a week!” Snape snarled against him.

“Oh. Good.”

“Then...I’m...going...to...do...it... _again!”_ Snape growled, and came all over him.

“Maybe you’re right about Quidditch being overrated,” said Harry. Just now, thinking about wild sex with Snape, he didn’t really care about the broom bit.

“Oh god. I may never escape,” said Snape.

“I’ll see you don’t, Severus.” Harry grinned at him.

“Did I give you permission to use my given name?”

“No. I took it anyway. Breakfast? With food?”

“We’ve missed it.” Snape—Severus—indicated the clock, which said, “Half-past breakfast-time.”

“I’d go and get you some from the kitchens, but I don’t know whether you’d let me back in,” admitted Harry.

Severus sighed, and reached for his wand. “Stand by the door.”

Harry stood by the door.

“Put your hand out.”

He did.

“Not that way. Where you can feel my wards.”

Harry twisted his hand slightly, felt a faint prickle of magic.

Severus muttered something and flicked his wand slightly. The prickle of magic fell away.

“That’s keyed to you. I don’t want to be bothered having to open and close the door all the time, if you’re bringing me meals of one sort or another.”

Harry smiled at him.

“If I ever discover you’ve been bringing Weasley or Granger in here, I’ll eviscerate them, is that clear?”

“Wouldn’t want to terrorise poor Ron or Hermione by bringing them to the Potions Monster’s lair.”

“Good.”

Snape closed his eyes and lay down on the bed, without telling Harry anything useful about what he had for breakfast when it was food. Typical.

Harry brought him hot rolls, jam, and plenty of coffee. He knew Snape liked coffee, and if he didn’t like jam Harry could always lick it off him.

Severus _did_ like jam, as it turned out. It was rather tempting watching him tear off little bits of hot roll, cover them with jam, and devour them with a sort of refined greed.

“Oh, shame, you finished the jam, Severus. I wanted to spill it on you.”

“We haven’t got time for a further outburst of adolescent hormones.”

“That’s right. Later?”

Severus nodded.

_I think I’ve learned how to handle him. Be fine if I could remember how..._

 

 

 

He turned up that evening, slipping into Severus’s private rooms while Severus was supervising a detention, and sitting there quietly in his cloak and not a stitch else.

Severus went straight to his corner when he came in. “Potter.”

 _He’s bluffing. I had a bath first, even._ Harry kept still.

“So you would prefer a childish _and futile_ game to sexual contact?”

Harry sighed, and slipped out of his cloak. “You’re probably bluffing. But I _do_ want sex.” He was seventeen. There weren’t many days when he didn’t think about it quite a lot.

“Of course I’m not bluffing.”

“Can you see through spells?”

“I don’t need to. Why am I a Potions expert, Potter?”

“I dunno—brains?”

“Brains could have got me anywhere. My nasal skills are unparalleled. Not one person in a hundred has the necessary acuteness coupled with the ability not to be blunted by strong unpleasant smells. My father did. I do.”

Harry couldn’t stop himself. “Runs in the family, the nose?” He sniggered.

“Like your godhound’s sense of humour, I see.” Severus gave him a long chilly look.

“Sorry.”

“Luckily for you, I’ve had a miserable day, and even your puerile idea of wit doesn’t wipe out my need to do something to forget it.”

Severus’s robe landed in a silent pool of shadow around his feet. Severus kicked out of it, brisk and irritable and stark naked, and sat down on the bed.

“So what happened?”

Severus looked at him.

“Pretend I care,” said Harry.

“A flood of melted cauldrons, one after the other, all Longbottom’s fault—”

“Neville was off ill today.”

“I think he left some sort of appalling residue to contaminate the cauldrons from his last mishap.”

“Neville is not some evil all-powerful monster whose tentacles of malice reach all over Hogwarts.”

Severus looked at him sideways. “Are you _sure?”_

Harry grinned. “What else?”

“Oh, just the endless petty stream of problems caused by all the other teachers failing to do their job in regard to children from my House.”

“That’s not fair. You call it harassment if anyone _does_ take an interest. Nobody dares say anything about your Slytherins. Look at what happened when Crabbe drowned that first-year’s rabbit.”

“As usual, you assume that the only things they do are perpetrated against others. But when somebody else does something to a Slytherin, and nobody believes the Slytherin, or when a Slytherin runs out of blank scroll to write on and nobody’ll let them go to the cupboard because they’re bound to steal something, or when one’s being bullied, or when one’s sufficiently demoralised by what people believe about them to try to live up to it, or when the eternal unfairness about sports gets to them...there’s only me. When any child from any other House could go to any teacher with a problem and be believed, my little serpents only have me.”

Harry thought about that. Yes, _big_ discipline problems went to your House master or mistress, but there were a lot of little niggling things where you just went to the nearest teacher, except if you were a Slytherin.

“I suppose you’re right. Why the hell does Dumbledore _run_ it like that?” Harry asked, a trifle indignantly.

“He says we can work on inter-House unity after the war. Which leaves me with the problem that if there’s any little annoying problem or piece of prejudice I miss sorting out, the sons and daughters of Death Eaters will let the festering _unfairness_ drive them straight into the arms of Voldemort. It happened to me, after all.”

That vein was throbbing again.

“I think _I’d_ be a miserable, rule-obsessed joyless bastard if I had that to deal with,” said Harry.

“Thank you so much.”

“Hey, I just saw your point of view!” said Harry, slightly indignantly.

“You do _not_ get House points for growing up, Potter.”

“You’ve been trying to make me think for years. You might at least be happy it’s happening.”

“I’m thrilled. I have also had a very bad, very long day, and I want you to give me your throat and let me forget all of it for five minutes of meaningless physical ecstasy.”

“This time, do I get foreplay?”

“If you must.” Severus’s long narrow hand shot out with a vampire’s unnatural speed and pinched cruelly at a nipple.

Harry’s prick stood straight up at attention, even while the rest of him wasn’t absolutely sure he liked that.

“That’s not what I meant. I want you to lie down while I touch you.”

Severus lay down. “If I have to.”

“No looking like a corpse, it’s off-putting.”

“Potter, it may have escaped your notice, but I’m undead.” Severus had taken up exactly the position of a stone effigy.

Harry sighed. To his surprise, though, it was rather exciting. Severus _was_ warm, and breathing, and despite his apparent determination not to react, he groaned with pleasure as Harry tongued his nipples and worked his way down.

Severus seemed to like being touched as much as _he_ did. Harry felt a little less slutty as he watched Severus lick his lips, writhe, and beg. Wetting his fingers, he paid close and tender attention to everything except Severus’s prick.

As he fingered Severus’s inner thighs, Severus’s black wild eyes shot open.

“Touch me.”

“But I _am_ touching you,” Harry said reasonably, just holding himself back from saying “sir”.

He went on rubbing and stroking, not thinking of anything but the pleasure of doing this small simple thing. Absent-mindedly his fingers circled Severus’s hole, enjoying the warm sweaty flesh, and one fingertip slid in.

He was about to mumble, “Sorry. M’finger slipped,” and retreat in embarrassment, when Severus groaned, “Fuck me.”

_Well, it’d be rude to disobey an order, wouldn’t it._

Harry thought back over all three of the times he’d actually fucked someone, and determined to make it good. He kept stroking with his left hand, while his right hand silently slid open the drawer of the bedside table.

 _Damn. What a time to discover he keeps Potions in there._ Harry’s fingertips glided over ten little bottles. There was a very faint clink.

“First on the left, Potter.”

Harry felt foolish. Of course if Severus wanted a quick wank before sleep, he wanted to have the oil-bottle where it wouldn’t get mixed up with any noxious Potion.

He sighed. Severus’s notorious bat-ears had ruined any chance of creeping up on him and doing this before he woke up enough to argue.

“Well, get on with it if you’re going to!” Severus snapped.

“What?” he asked, wanting to make sure.

“Bloody Gryffindors,” Severus muttered, “attention-span of a weak-minded gnat. I _said_ ‘fuck me’ and I meant it. Pass me the oil.”

“Sorry. Thought you were overcome by passion, sir.” Harry handed him the little bottle.

“I was intending to be.” Severus glared at him. “If you don’t want to fuck me, do something else but _do it now!”_

Harry was rather impressed that Severus could manage to produce three words without sibilants in a controlled hiss—he wasn’t even a Parselmouth.

“Not that, sir. It’s just...if you decide it’s wrong, you’ll make my life hell.”

“I’m capable of making your life hell for any, or no, reason, Potter.” Severus sniffed the oil, nodded, and held out the little bottle.

“There is that.” Harry put plenty on his hands and rubbed them warm. He slid one finger in, very slowly, and began to work Severus open. Severus moaned, shivered, shut his eyes and rocked gently against the finger.

“Is that right?” Harry asked.

The black fierce eyes opened again, disconcertingly alert.

“More!”

Harry added another finger. As gently as he could, he felt for the small roughness on the inner wall and brushed a fingertip against it.

“That’s it. Harder.”

Harry did it harder. Severus quivered hotly around his fingers and panted, then groaned.

“Is that—”

“More!”

Harry added a third finger and did his best to rub briskly where Severus liked it.

“More!”

“If I put four fingers in I might hurt you,” said Harry.

Severus opened his eyes and gave him one of those I-Am-Surrounded-By-Idiots-And-I-Cannot-Believe-How-Obtuse-You-Are-Being glares.

“Oh,” said Harry. He swallowed. This was it, then. Slowly, he lined himself up, amazed at the thought of something the size of his cock going into that little space. Which wasn’t vanity so much as having the time and the lighting to think about it. All his other experiences of actual fucking had been hurrying, furtive and in the dark (at night or under the covers). He wanted to be slow and gentle, to savour the astonishing experience of sliding into the almost-painful tightness.

 _“Now._ Or you’ll regret it. Deeply.”

 _Well, if it’ll shut him up,_ Harry thought, and shoved hard, falling on top of Severus in a breathless astonished heap as he thrust. If it was any tighter he’d probably faint. He liked it, though.

He drew back, just a little, while Severus wailed and clawed at him, and slammed himself back in. He liked _that_ so much he kept doing it.

He was so busy he didn’t even feel the sharp points of Severus’s fangs enter his neck, but he noticed when Severus began to draw from him, oh yes, _that_ he noticed, have to be _dead_ not to feel that... a great flood of dizzy pleasure, draining blood and rising come, and he could feel it throbbing out of him, semen and blood sucked greedily up. Then he felt Severus give one last frantic rub against him and howl against his neck as he came, still sucking.

He moaned a little, complainingly, as the fangs withdrew less-than-gently the second Severus had finished coming.

“Be thankful one of us has some presence-of-mind, Harry,” Severus said. Putting his arms round Harry, almost uncomfortably tightly, he fell asleep.

Harry watched him for a while. Severus looked at his most human like this (more human than he’d looked when he _was_ , probably)—dazed, with his hair all over the place, sweat on his face, Harry’s blood on his parted lips, and an expression of sated contentment on his face.

Five minutes later, needing to go to the loo, Harry discovered the disadvantage to being held that tightly. He squirmed. Severus’s hold was unbreakable.

“I just need to pee,” he explained in a whisper, “I’ll be right back.”

Severus, apparently still sleeping, muttered something and let go.

Like every other piece of furniture in Severus’s rooms, the toilet was black and looming. Harry used it, rather relieved a monster didn’t grab him, washed his hands in the black sink, and returned to the bed, where his own personal ‘monster’ grabbed him instantly, complained about his chilly hands, and went to sleep wrapped round him.

 

 

Next morning, Harry woke up having his blood sucked. Seconds later, without even being touched, he had an orgasm so intense he was vaguely surprised his head was still on afterwards. He fell into a deep sleep in seconds, and was just-about awakened by a knocking on the door. He blundered upright and answered it.

 _“Malfoy?”_ he said, wondering what sort of emergency had the Ferret knocking on the door to the Gryffindor dorm. Except this...wasn’t. He gaped.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he mumbled.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “What else could it be?”

“Breakfast,” Harry mumbled. “We’re allowed to do that. It says so in books. One of those tradition things. Vampires.”

“I can’t help noticing, however hard I try, you’ve had sex in that pair of pyjama trousers.”

“I _like_ having my blood sucked,” said Harry, trying not to blush.

“That’s twisted, even for you, Potter.”

“It’s a perfectly normal reaction, as you’d know if you’d kept up with your reading as much as Potter has,” Severus said quietly behind them.

 _“Potter_ reads books?”

“They are not his favourite form of recreation, but he had the intelligence to discover my condition, find out about it, and discover that the only way he’d be legally permitted to have an orgasm anywhere near his Potions master was by feeding me. Practically Slytherin, in fact.”

Malfoy rubbed his hands together.

“Mr Malfoy,” said Severus quietly, “remember what happened with Merrison last year. If you’re intending to use my condition against me imagine what your remaining school life will be with a less-capable Head of House. And my own personal enmity, of course.”

“Yes, sir. Not a word, sir.” Harry rather thought that no Slytherin was reckless enough to disregard the threat of Snape’s personal enmity. They’d seen it directed on their behalf, after all.

“What _did_ happen with Merrison, sir?” asked Harry.

“Blackmail or gossip, as common currency, depend on knowing how to _apply_ your leverage quite as much as having it in the first place. He tried to start a whispering campaign about a Ravenclaw boy last year, but since Merrison is generally well-liked, it did him more damage than his target. I am not well-liked, but any fall-out from this particular piece of gossip will land squarely on House Slytherin as a whole.” Snape looked at both of them.

Malfoy looked nervous.

“And now if you could favour me with whatever you actually came here to tell me, Mr Malfoy?” said Snape delicately.

“Oh,” said Malfoy, who still looked slightly thrown, “three people are trying to stuff Goyle’s head down the toilet. Yes, I know, general rejoicing and all that, but he is one of ours.”

“Thought he was one of your friends,” muttered Harry.

“I don’t _have_ friends, Potter. I have useful people, like my father does, and Goyle’s not going to be any use to me if he gets flushed away, now is he?”

“S’pose not. Go on, both of you. Go and save Goyle from a watery end.”

He’d actually got used to being halfway nice to Severus, but being polite to Malfoy seemed a bit weird, he thought as the two Slytherins headed off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Saturday morning, two weeks later, Mrs Weasley cornered him in Hogsmeade.

It was raining. Harry was clutching an umbrella and wondering how the hell Malfoy managed that trick of not getting wet. He had rain down his neck, puddles soaking into his socks, and Draco Malfoy didn’t have one damp thread or hair.

“Hello, Harry, dear.” She followed his gaze. “Oh, it’s a wicked waste.”

“What is?”

“Using your magic to keep dry. _Most_ of us just enchant one or two articles of clothing, but the Malfoys always did show off.”

“He’s got it sort of wrapped round him?”

“A spell that big takes a bit of upkeep, dear. Let’s hope he gets nicked for underage magic.” She smiled conspiratorially at him. “At least our lot only do _little_ things, like enchanted sweets, not a spell you can hear howling away across the street.”

Harry remembered the Ford Anglia. He didn’t mention it.

“I don’t think Fred and George have done anything illegal for a bit,” he said, smiling back at her. “Or they’re better at covering it up. Who did you come to see, anyway?”

To his surprise, she looked uneasy. “Actually, it’s you. You do know you’re almost one of my boys, only with dark hair?”

Well, she was sort of his honorary Mum. “Go on, what is it?”

“Hermione thinks you might be being...hurt. Influenced. In the wrong sort of relationship.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous!” He took a moment to make the connection. “Is this about Severus?” Hermione already had half the puzzle, and he should have realised that she and Ron would talk about his absences. He hadn’t been in the Gryffindor dormitory much for the last week or two.

“So it’s true?”

“It’s true he’s a vampire, and I’m his...” ( _donor? dinner?_ ) “...friend,” he concluded temperately.

“So he _is_ abusing you?”

“Certainly not, Molly,” he said roundly.

“Only...would you know? If he was doing something to your mind?”

“I’ve done a lot for the cause of freedom, and I think I deserve the freedom to make my own choices. I killed Voldemort, even if it didn’t take. I even argue back at Dumbledore if I feel it’s necessary. I was the only child in school that couldn’t be Imperius-ed, for heaven’s sake!”

“Well, you certainly don’t _look_ as if someone’s exercising some sort of power over you. But why would you choose to...”

“Well, he’s sexy as hell, for one thing...all right, you probably don’t want to _know_ that, but you made it your business by asking. If he was shagging me, we’d be in trouble. If he’s just drinking from me, that’s allowed. He wouldn’t have laid a fang on me unless I’d made him.”

“I’m not happy about it.”

“You don’t have to be. It’s nobody else’s business.”

She looked at him. “That’s what Professor Dumbledore says.”

“Professor Dumbledore,” said Harry ungratefully, “can just keep his long, broken nose out of everyone else’s business.”

“He stopped Professor Snape committing suicide.”

“Suicide? Severus isn’t the type.”

“Well, there’s a cure for vampirism, but it wasn’t available to him, so I should think he thought it was the only way out.”

“I never knew there was a cure.”

“Not one _he_ could do.”

Harry resolved to look it up.

He went for a coffee-and-cake with Molly, and they chatted quite normally, if you forgot the fact that Molly was watching him very carefully throughout.

When she left, she admitted she wasn’t _sure_ but she didn’t _think_ Severus had done anything to his mind.

“That’s because he hasn’t.”

 

 

 

 

One evening, Harry turned up at Severus’s rooms with someone who definitely wouldn’t fit through the wards, and knocked.

Severus opened the door.

“What is _he_ doing here?” demanded Severus, furiously.

“Yes, what am _I_ doing here?” demanded Sirius, equally crossly.

“Come in and sit down,” Harry asked his godfather, since nobody else was going to.

He shut the door firmly.

After ten minutes’ silent glaring, he realised he had to speak, since nobody else was going to.

“Sirius. You know Severus is a vampire, right?”

“And he had the infernal crust to get Remy thrown out for being a werewolf when he’s something even more loathsome.”

“He wasn’t at the time, not that it was the right thing to do. _Anyway,_ you know I’m feeding him.”

“I’ve already talked to you about that,” said Sirius. “You ought to stop.”

“I agree,” said Harry.

Severus looked...hurt. Harry damped down his immediate impulse to console him; this wasn’t the time.

Sirius looked smug.

“Therefore,” said Harry, “I’ll cure him.”

“You _what?!?”_ said Severus, and Sirius, in perfect unison.

Severus glared at him. “He’s my enemy...” Sirius nodded at this. “...but that doesn’t make you my lover.”

“Well, I’m not sure I’m _in_ love with you, Sev. I don’t have much basis for comparison at my age. But I’m seventeen years old and willing to give up access to rapturous and frequent sort-of-sex just to get you back to normal, even though you won’t touch me when you’re my human teacher. That must count as some sort of love,” said Harry steadily.

Sirius looked ill, although Harry wasn’t sure whether it was about the sex or the love.

“I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire!” said Sirius to Severus.

“Do I look like a lamp-post, flea-bag?” snapped Severus.

“Sirius, I love you like a father, but I will never speak to you again unless you do this for me. I don’t expect you to do it for _Sev,_ I expect you to do it because I ask,” said Harry.

Sirius nodded slowly.

Severus said, “Do you expect me to tell you I love you, Potter?”

“No, of course not. I’m not _completely_ stupid.”

“He won’t agree to it, of course,” said Sirius cockily.

“The chance to free myself from vampiric existence plus the chance to upset you, Black? Of course I will. Even though I detest you and have no desire to touch any part of your body.”

“You couldn’t possibly loathe and detest me as much as I loathe and detest you!” said Sirius hotly.

“All right, all right,” said Harry. “Let’s just take it as read that neither of you can stand each other.”

Severus wiped his own fangs, then Sirius’s neck, with a cloth. With an expression of utter distaste on his face, and looking as if he was trying to grow his fangs so that he could suck Sirius’s blood without touching him, he did it.

Harry held his hand all the time. It seemed to calm him a bit.

“All right, I think that’s enough,” said Harry, and the opponents shot apart, spitting and swearing.

“I need a shower, and a woman,” said Sirius gloomily. “No, scratch that. I need _several_ showers, and _several_ women. And a lot of drink.”

“I need Harry,” muttered Severus.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Snape,” said Sirius.

“So am I,” said Severus, pointing his wand at the door and opening it.

Sirius left.

“Ready for your last drink?” Harry asked quietly.

Severus nodded.

Both of them were distressed, and eager, and shaking. Harry climaxed at the first pull of blood, and Severus took just a little longer.

As soon as he came, Severus pulled out from Harry’s throat, and held on as if he never wanted to let go.

“Do you remember the spell?” Harry asked.

Severus nodded.

The spell went on for a while. It was in some guttural language, not Latin, and sounded primitive and sad. Severus traced his wand through the air in little strokes in front of them, while the heel of his hand still rested on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry felt the pull of strong magic.

Two fangs slipped away from Severus’s mouth and landed with a faint ‘clink’ on the stone floor.

Harry laughed a bit. “Well, I suppose that worked then.” He looked at Severus’s merely-human mouth.

Severus held him with merely-human strength and determination. For some time.

 

 

 

Three months later came the exams. Harry nearly missed some of them because of having to kill Voldemort again (although at least it seemed more final this time), but after a quick go on the Time-Turner he managed to fit everything in.

He was fairly sure he’d scraped a pass in everything.

God, he’d _missed_ Sev. Like anything. He hadn’t gone back for a cuddle or a snog, because that would have been a torment.

The last exam finished at three-thirty in the afternoon. Severus had another exam to invigilate after that.

Harry was relieved to find Severus hadn’t changed his wards. He prepared himself, enjoying the luxury of making sure he was _thoroughly_ clean and _thoroughly_ lubricated, and slipped into bed. At about the time he was fairly sure Severus would be heading back home, he slipped out of bed and sprawled all over it, probably looking sluttish.

Severus opened the door. “Ah. Mr Potter. I see I’m back on the agenda now you’re permitted to make use of me.”

“It’s Harry. And if I’d wanted to _use_ you I’d have kept you a vampire. I just didn’t want to be a cock-tease...” his hand wandered down to play with himself “...when we couldn’t do it. I did miss you, though. Even missed your conversation.”

“You would have been permitted to talk to me.”

“I’d have liked that. But I didn’t trust myself to keep to what was permitted, and there were the exams. And Voldemort. In the last battle, I kept promising myself, _if I get this right, I can go back to Sev and get fucked rigid._”

He made a display of his fingers stretching his hole.

“My contribution to the war-effort. To the victor the spoils. I suppose you’re a better fuck than Riddle,” said Severus. “I suppose you do deserve something.”

With a quick spell, he was stripped naked. Harry liked the view.

“Oh, I think I’m going to _come!”_ Harry panted.

Severus was across the room almost as fast as he’d have done it as a vampire.

“No, you’re not.”

Since one of Severus’s hands was clamped on Harry’s wrist, and the other was twisting at his balls, Harry was forced to agree.

“You’re going to wait until I’ve got it in you, Harry, _then_ you’re going to come,” Severus murmured in his silkiest of tones, picking up the lubricant and applying it to his erection.

“You don’t have to...”

“There’s no point in doing a slapdash job, Potter.” Even the ‘schoolmaster’ voice made his cock jump and leak.

“Yes there _is,_ ” Harry muttered stubbornly, “because if we have a quickie now without any refinements, we can do it properly later.”

“I’m not going to be satisfied with ‘once’ after three months, Harry. Prepare yourself to be used without mercy.”

“I _am_ prepared,” moaned Harry, and rolled over. Hands and knees the first time; it always simplified things.

Severus went into him quite roughly. Harry liked the mixture of pain and pleasure; it made it feel real, far away from the spinning seduction of vampire-venom filling his blood. As Severus reached the depth of his stroke, he bit Harry’s neck, and _that_ was odd. Not that Harry had long to wonder about it, because Severus was working his prick viciously against Harry’s prostate, and _he_ was coming and _Harry_ was coming in long violent shudders.

“Feels odd, you biting me now,” Harry admitted, coming down from his ecstasy. “More painful, sort of blunt and grinding. Rounded teeth, not little needly-sharp fangs.”

“I think I had momentarily forgotten my change in circumstances,” Severus admitted.

Harry yawned. “I need a nap before the next round.”

“Good,” said Severus, falling asleep on his shoulder. Less corpse-pale, back to the normal sallow colouring of someone who didn’t get out much. Didn’t look bad on him, though.

And he still held onto Harry as if he never wanted to let go.


End file.
